


G.I.N.A.S.F.S.

by WhenIShipIShipHard



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Hopeful Ending, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Peterick, i was hella sad so i wrote angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenIShipIShipHard/pseuds/WhenIShipIShipHard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He shut his eyes again and groped around the other side of his bed, slightly shocked when he found it empty. </p><p>After a few more seconds of useless grabbing, his hand met something cold and hard. He recoiled at the touch. Not empty, then. Cautiously, he reached back and picked the object up. An empty bottle of tequila, cap missing. </p><p>What the fuck?</p>
            </blockquote>





	G.I.N.A.S.F.S.

**Author's Note:**

> hello i wrote this at the fine time of late o clock in the morning on a school night i hope its not too confusing or shitty bc its rly early and idc enough to rly edit it.

_I've loved everything about you that hurts so let me see your moves, let me see your moves._

Pete groaned and rolled over in his bed. His eyes snapped open to reveal... darkness. His head pounded.

"Fuck..." He shut his eyes again and groped around the other side of his bed, slightly shocked when he found it empty.

After a few more seconds of useless grabbing, his hand met something cold and hard. He recoiled at the touch. Not empty, then. Cautiously, he reached back and picked the object up. An empty bottle of tequila, cap missing.

What the fuck?

Pete couldn't remember the last time he had gotten blackout drunk like this. It was years ago, before he, before-

Fuck.

Before he had realized Patrick loved him back. That was back in 2003.

Patrick.

Pete sat up, groaning in pain as his head throbbed. Advil, he needed Advil. And coffee. And death. But mostly Advil.

He stumbled out of bed and shuffled to his bathroom, where he kept all his medicines, wincing with each step. He managed to unscrew the cap of the Advil bottle, and place two in his mouth, swallowing them down with a handful of sink water.

Then, he wallowed in bed until the pounding subsided enough for him to function somewhat normally.

He forced himself not to think of last night's events or the emptiness of his bed or the fact that there were multiple bottles of alcohol in his bedroom.

[•]

_Lips pressed close to mine, true blue._

Pete didn't get out of bed all day, couldn't bother to. Between vivid memories and choked sobs, he couldn't find the energy to move.

Pete closed his eyes and shuddered at the memory of him and Patrick ice skating together last December.

{ _Patrick's lips were slightly blue from the cold, in fact everything seemed blue; Patrick's lips, his sweater, his eyes, the sky, the ice. He was laughing and spinning in circles around Pete. Around and around and around. Pete could barely hold himself upright on the slippery ice, but couldn't help but grin at Patrick's happiness. He was so caught up in the younger boy's laugh that he slipped and fell in a whirls of clothes and limbs. Before he could make a noise of surprise, Patrick was there, lifting him up and giggling manically. When Pete stood, they were nose to nose, Patrick's breath warming his cold lips. With a glint in his eyes, Patrick leaned in and pressed his soft lips to Pete's dry ones, for one, two, three seconds, before suddenly speeding off laughing and calling after him._ }

Fresh tears spilled onto Pete's cheeks, the heat countering the cold of the memory.

[•]

_But the prince of any failing empire knows that everybody wants, everybody wants to drive on through the night if it's a drive back home._

Pete was determined to stay in his apartment. Andy called, Joe called. They had work to do, after all. Music wasn't gonna write itself. But Pete knew that the sooner he spat out lyrics, the faster he'd have to watch Patrick sing them. And the thought of seeing Patrick and hearing his voice again, let alone hear him sing lyrics that Pete wrote for him, made him want to throw up.

So he ignored the calls, ignored the texts, ignored the knocks on his door. No matter how many times Andy and Joe threatened to break down his apartment door, he knew they wouldn't do it.

However, he did forget that Patrick had a key to his apartment. And that's how, a week after _that night_ , he found Andy and Joe opening the door to his apartment and letting themselves in uninvited.

He had planted himself on the couch that day, watching shitty tv and thinking about anything and everything but _that night_. His head was so full of random words and unwritten lyrics, but he couldn't find enough energy in him to find a pen and paper.

He didn't hear the key turn in the lock before Andy and Joe burst into his apartment, too caught up in his own mind. When they did, he screamed and fell off the couch.

"What the fuck!" He yelled.

"Patrick had a key," Joe said, shrugging and holding it up. Pete immediately tensed at the sound of his love's name.

"It reeks in here," Andy growled. He glared at Pete. "When was the last time you showered? Or cleaned? Or ate?"

Pete shrugged, lowering his eyes. Andy's gaze immediately softened.

"I'm gonna go run and grab some food. Joe, make sure he showers. And try cleaning up around here a little." He wrinkled his nose before turning and walking out of the door.

"You heard the man," Joe said lazily. Pete nodded and got up, heading to the shower, even if it was only so he could cry a little more without drawing the attention of his friends.

[•]

_Things aren't the same anymore, some night it gets so bad that I almost pick up the phone._

Pete clutched at his blankets, burying his face into his already wet pillow. Dry sobs wracked his body, he had run out of tears an hour ago.

Maybe if he just called Patrick. Maybe if he could talk to him, convince him. Maybe it would work out. He reached up and grabbed his phone off the side table. He scrolled through his contacts, fingers hovering over the call button when he reached Patrick's. Maybe it would be ok.

Suddenly, he threw his phone against the wall, shattering it. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. He was so fucking stupid, how could he think that Patrick would want him back?

Pete didn't know why he was so surprised that Patrick left him. It was going to happen eventually. Patrick would realize just how much of a shit Pete was, and would leave him for someone better.

But he was just starting to hope, that maybe...

Stupid.

[•]

_Trade baby blues for wide-eyes browns, I sleep with your old shirt and walk through this house in your shoes._

Two weeks. It had been two weeks. Pete hadn't left his apartment. Andy and Joe brought him food a lot, at least once a day. He didn't deserve such good friends.

Pete woke up to a little bit of light pouring through the curtains over the single window in the room. He scowled at it, cursing light everywhere. Unable to fall back asleep, he dragged his feet over to the bathroom and, for the first time in weeks, looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked awful. Skin ashen, bags under his eyes, hair an unkempt mess.

Pete remembered when he would wake up every day to Patrick's blue eyes, bright and happy in the mornings. He'd then kiss Pete, and the two of them would lay in comfortable silence, wrapped in each other's arms. Pete could stare at those blue eyes for years, and never get bored.

Now, Pete gazed into his own boring brown eyes as his heart clenched and his stomach turned.

Pete walked back over to his bed. He averted his eyes when he saw one of Patrick's old shirts balled up next to his pillow. He found it a few days ago in his closet, and couldn't bring himself to do anything about it except sob and bury his face in it and smell and familiar scent of Patrick.

He knew he should throw it out or burn it or return it or somehow get rid of Patrick's ghost, but he couldn't, he couldn't do it, he needed it still, he still needed Patrick.

[•]

_I know it's strange. It's a strange way of saying that I know I'm supposed to love you, I'm supposed to love you._

Pete was tired. So so tired. Of everything. Of going through the motions of life when he didn't even want to live if he couldn't live with Patrick, his best friend, his other half, his love.

Patrick had told him that once.

{ _They had been laying together in bed one night, neither able to sleep. Pete was spooning Patrick protectively, arms wrapped around his stomach, chin tucked in his shoulder. Patrick traced patterns on Pete's hands and forearms with one hand. Both were wrapped in their own thoughts and each other's warmth, and Pete loved nights like that, where they could just exist in each other's presence._

_Patrick eventually broke the silence. "Y'know, we're soulmates Pete," he had murmured softly into the dark. "We were meant to be."_

_Pete grinned into Patrick's shoulder, butterflies fluttering in his stomach._

_"I love you," he had whispered, kissing Patrick's shoulder. "So so much."_ }

"YOU SAID WE'RE MEANT TO BE," Pete screamed at the silent air. "YOU SAID WE WERE SOULMATES! WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME WHY WHY WHY?" He choked on his tears. "Why," he sobbed. "You said we were meant to be."

[•]

_I've already given up on myself twice (but the) third time is the charm, third time is the charm. Threw caution to the wind, but I've got a lousy arm._

Pete wanted to give up. Three weeks. He couldn't do this anymore. He had grudgingly handed some lyrics to Andy when he came over to check on him the other day, but he knew the band was getting restless, and they had to pick things up again. He briefly wondered how Patrick was doing, but shoved away the thought as images of a happy Patrick completely over him.

Pete didn't want to live anymore. He hadn't wanted to for weeks, but now it was nearing in on a month since _that night_ , and he hadn't heart a word from Patrick, and nights weren't getting easier, and Pete wanted to give up. He was so tempted to just give up. Because whatever hell he was destined for had to be better than this.

Joe, however, had other things on his mind.

"We're going out tonight," he announced when he came to visit Pete that day.

"What," Pete said dully, not really registering what Joe had said.

"I said," Joe exclaimed. "We are going out tonight. To a club. You and me."

"Why don't you just take Hurley," Pete groaned. The thought of leaving the house to go to a shitty club with shitty music sounded awful.

"Because Hurley has left the house in the last three weeks, unlike you. And clubs aren't really his thing."

Pete sighed, but didn't reply.

"Come on, dude. Look what's happening to you. You need to get out."

Pete knew better than to argue. "Alright."

\---

The next morning, Pete groaned and opened his eyes, warding off the annoyingly bright sun coming through the window. His head pounded. Suddenly, he heard a soft snore next to him. He jumped, and looked over. Am unfamiliar person with dark hair and nice pale skin slept peacefully next to him, arm standing out against the black sheets.

Black sheets? Pete didn't have black sheets.

He looked around the room, taking in his surroundings. It was immediately clear he was not in his apartment.

"Fucking fuck," he whispered to himself. He needed to get out. What was happening to him?

He quietly slipped out of bed, noting that he was completely naked. Not that big of a surprise, given his current situation. It took him a good ten minutes to find his clothes around the room, but once he was sure he had everything, he stumbled around the apartment, looking for a front door. When he found one, he briefly considered leaving a note behind to the man in the bed, but decided against it as his head throbbed. He needed to get home.

He walked home, wandering randomly until he found a familiar spot. As he walked, his mind raced. What was wrong with him? He hadn't woken up in a strangers bed since before he met Patrick. Fuck Joe and his stupid fucking ideas.

[•]

_And I've traced your shadows on the wall, now I kiss them whenever I'm down, whenever I'm down. (Just kind of) figured on not figuring myself out._

Pete didn't try to make sense of the mess that was last night. He hoped the stranger wasn't too offended to find Pete gone. When Joe stopped by again, he didn't even meet his eye.

"C'mon dude, was it that bad?" he asked for the hundredth time.

"Fuck you Joe. I haven't done that in so fucking long. I was hoping I'd never have to go back to that again." Pete's voice was tight.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't think you'd go off and sleep with someone. I just wanted to get you out of here."

Pete looked at him, he really did sound apologetic. "Alright," he said, but it was enough, because Joe swallowed him in a hug.

\---

Patrick filled Pete's thoughts again that night. But he didn't cry. He was out of tears, out of energy, he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling and remember every kiss, every touch, every detail. Pete remembered when he first met Patrick, when he was a short chubby kid who played the drums. Pete was drawn to him from the very start, but it wasn't until months later he realized he was in love.

Months after that, when Patrick first told him he loved him too. They had fought, as usual, but this one was especially bad. Pete eventually went over to apologize to his best friend (as usual, it was Pete who fucked up). One thing led to another, and Pete kissed Patrick, on accident of course, and when he tried to pull away, apologizing, Patrick shut him up with another kiss.

It was the best day of Pete's life.

[•]

_Things aren't the same anymore, some nights it gets so bad that I almost pick up the phone. Trade baby blues, for wide-eyed browns, I sleep with your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes. I know it's strange. It's a strange way of saying that I know I'm supposed to love you, I'm supposed to love you._

[•]

_I was born under a bad sign, but you saved my life that night on the roof of your hotel._

Patrick had saved his life. He healed Pete with his voice and his smiles and his love. He was always there when Pete was at his worst. He was always there to listen and to heal with love and comforting promises _._

 _"I'll always be here for you."_ How many times had Patrick whispered that in his ear at night when holding him? How many times had Patrick told him that when he was having an anxiety attack, or had nightmares, or couldn't stand to live with himself? And where was he now, when Pete needed him most?

It was all a lie. Everything was a lie. And Pete was stupid to believe that someone as pure and beautiful as Patrick would truly love someone like Pete.

Every day, every night, every word spoken, it was all one huge lie.

Why wasn't Patrick here to save his life again?

[•]

_'Cross my heart and hope to die, splinter from the headboard in my eye', photo-proofed kisses I remember so well._

Pete wanted to move out, and he would've if he had the energy and motivation to move. It had been a month, and he missed Patrick more than he thought he could bear. His mood swings occurred more often, scaring the shit out of Joe and Andy when they came to visit. He still delivered lyrics to them, and they still created music. But it was slow, too slow, and if they had an album coming out in less than a year, Pete would need to get his shit together and start working with them.

Joe told him exactly that. "Pete, dude, I know everything sucks for you right now, but we reached the point where we need to start working, like, two weeks ago. Just lyrics aren't enough, we need you to come back."

Pete's spoke without thinking. "Is Patrick singing my lyrics?" he blurted.

"What?" Joe visibly tensed, his guard up now that they were talking about Patrick, who's name hadn't been brought up in conversation in a month.

Pete swallowed. "Patrick, is Patrick singing my lyrics? Is he singing them? Is he working on them?"

Joe hesitated. "I actually don't know. I check up on him like I do to you, but he never really talks to me. He's more open around Andy. Andy says he takes the lyrics, but I don't know if he's actually worked on them."

Pete just stared at him. Was Patrick, was Patrick not doing ok?

"Is Patrick -" Pete choked. "Is Patrick ok?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Joe looked surprised. "He's not doing much better than you. Why would he be ok?"

Pete just gawked at him. Patrick hadn't moved on? Patrick was still upset? Did Patrick still... love him?

"Does he still," Pete's voice cracked. He took a deep breath. "Does he still love me?"

"I, yeah, I would assume so," Joe said gently.

Pete sank down on the couch, mind working furiously. If Patrick still loved him, why did he leave him? Why hasn't he called?

 _Why haven't you called him, dumbass?_ he asked himself.

"Joe," Pete said, voice shaking. "Can I borrow your phone?"

Joe handed it over without a word. Pete dialed the numbers, familiar as his own phone number.

Fingers shaking violently, he pressed call.

It rang once. Twice. He picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?" Patrick said, voice rough.

"Patrick," Pete sighed.

[•]

_Trade baby blues, for wide-eyed browns, I sleep with your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes, I know it's strange. It's a strange way of saying that I know I'm supposed to love you, I'm supposed to love you._

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading all the way down here, i was hella sad while writing this so its angsty-er than i like, but i was considering killing patrick and i didnt so theres that. hope you enjoyed!


End file.
